I check my watch. 7:42 AM. We made it with eighteen minutes to spare, which considering I had to physically drag her out of bed, counts as a minor miracle. No resentment touches me as I consider the morning’s logistics—getting her showered, dressed, caffeinated enough to function. She’s always been the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever encountered, all sharp edges wrapped in silk and self-destruction. Getting paid to take care of her feels like gaming the system when I’d happily do it for free.
Pathetic, a voice in my head whispers.Three years of this and she still doesn’t see you.
I silence it with practiced ease.
“Here.” I set a bowl of fresh fruit on the tray table in front of her—strawberries, blueberries, chunks of pineapple. “Eat something.”
“Not hungry.”
“You need food in your stomach.” I pull the prescription bottle from my jacket pocket, shake out a single white pill. “This isn’t good to take on an empty stomach.”
Phoenix eyes the Xanax like it might bite her even as she reaches out to take it. “I hate flying.”
“I know.”
“It’s unnatural. Humans weren’t meant to be thirty thousand feet in the air in a metal tube.”
“I know.”
“We could drive to Montreal. It’s only?—“
“Twenty-four hundred miles. We could make it in two days if we wear diapers and don’t stop to eat.” I place the pill next to her fruit bowl. “Which would mean missing tonight’s screening, tomorrow morning’s interviews and our flight to London.”
She glares at me through her sunglasses. Even hungover and grumpy, she’s stunning in that careless way that makes people write songs about her. The morning light filtering through the jet’s windows catches the copper in her hair, turning it to flame.
“I hate it when you’re logical.”
“No, you don’t.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “No, I don’t.”
I settle into the seat across from her, pulling out my phone to review today’s schedule. Montreal arrival at 11:30 AM Eastern. Hotel check-in, then lunch with local press at 1:00. Red carpet at 6:00, screening at 7:00, after-party she’ll want to skip but can’t.
“Mase?”
“Mm?”
“Did you eat?”
The question catches me off guard. Phoenix rarely notices anything beyond the best way to keep herself upright when she’s hungover. “I grabbed something at the hotel.”
“Liar.”
She pushes the fruit bowl between us, a peace offering wrapped in concern. I take a strawberry to appease her, the sweetness sharp against my empty stomach. Truth is, I’ve been running on coffee and anxiety since 4 AM, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh.” I set my phone down, steeling myself for her reaction. “There’s been a small change to the flight manifest.”
Phoenix freezes with a piece of pineapple halfway to her mouth. “What kind of change?”
“An addition to passenger list. Made sometime late last night.”
“Mason.” Her voice drops to that dangerous register that usually precedes thrown objects. “Who?”
“The studio thinks it would be good press if you and Atticus arrive together.”
The pineapple drops back into the bowl. Phoenix stares at me like I’ve just announced the plane will be dropping puppies from the cargo hold mid-flight for good luck.
“Atticus Sloan,” she says slowly, each syllable precise, “is about to get on this plane.”
